The wine was poisoned.
In that instant, Varys and Petyr, seated side by side, arrived at the same conclusion. They exchanged a glance, calm and wordless. Though sworn enemies, now trapped together on a sinking ship, a shared sense of misfortune, even camaraderie, arose between them.
This bastard wants to kill us.
But for the two intended targets, suspecting the wine was merely the first step in escaping the trap. They still had to consider: if they refused to drink it...
Did Aegor have a backup plan?
Would he erupt in fury and resort to force?
Was the Night's Watch prepared for Daenerys's suspicion and wrath?
Could the four Unsullied guards each had brought with them, caught off guard, handle twice their number in Gift soldiers?
The atmosphere, which just moments before had turned warm and seemingly harmonious, instantly plummeted into a deathly, chilling silence, like a pitch-black ice cave. The two greatest schemers in Westeros, men who had navigated the game of power for decades, both felt an icy stiffness seize their bodies as their minds raced for a way out.
Varys's trembling hand slipped into his tunic, gripping the dagger hidden at his chest.
You want to kill me? It won't be that easy.
The world knew him as the Eight-legged Spider, the Master of Whisperers who had served two kings—Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. But few knew the life he led before reaching Westeros.
Because he carried a faint trace of the Blackfyre bloodline, he had been discovered in his youth by a practitioner of blood magic and selected as a sacrifice for a spell. He had watched with his own eyes as the man severed his manhood and threw it into the fire to summon some dark, unknowable entity. And the fire had responded.
Cast out afterward, his wounds untreated, tossed into the street like garbage, he had not chosen to die. He had chosen to live. He begged, stole, even sold himself to survive. Relying on a sharp mind and quick hands, he quickly made a name for himself as a thief, so bold and skilled that even other thieves shut him out.
When he could no longer survive in Myr, he drifted to Pentos and fell in with Illyrio, who was just a low-level assassin at the time. He learned to be more discreet and began a new venture with Illyrio.
In those brutal years—rising from petty thief to grand thief, then to a thief lord and, finally, a renowned dealer of secrets and local powerbroker—half the thieves in Pentos wanted to kill them. The other half worked for them. In that time, Varys not only came to understand the value of information, amassing wealth and ambition, but also learned how to survive. He developed a strict code: extreme caution, sharp observation, and never letting his physical abilities fall too far behind.
Yes, he appeared obese and sluggish, but he had trained in various weapons, from scorpions and catapults to slingshots and daggers. His skill exceeded the average. Beneath his robes, even in the hottest weather, he always wore fine soft armor, paired with a concealed dagger. He was not fit for tournaments, but in a close-quarters fight for his life, anyone who underestimated him because he was a eunuch and fat would pay for it in blood.
But today... would that be enough to save him?
Sweat beaded on his palms. Aegor, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the slayer of White Walkers, the hero who had led humanity to victory over the dead... This was no common brute. He was a soldier, forged in blood and war, said to be among the ten strongest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms. Though some believed those tales exaggerated, the man's frame made it clear he wore armor beneath his coat, and the fine steel longsword at his waist was real.
With Aegor fully armed and prepared, how much chance did he truly have?
One percent? Less?
His Adam's apple bobbed. Knowing he had little hope, Varys's survival instinct flared. He had schemed for more than twenty years to reach this point. He would not end up a poisoned corpse at a dining table.
The Unsullied outside were likely unable to mount a timely rescue. If violence erupted, his only path to survival would be to act first. If he could place a blade at Aegor's throat, it might buy him time. If the Gift soldiers hesitated, and he could retreat to the guest quarters still guarded by the Queen's men, holding the Lord Commander hostage, he and Daenerys might still escape Winterfell alive.
Even if it was a one-in-a-thousand chance, it was better than waiting to die. If he was going to perish, he would force Aegor to kill him with his own hands. He would not go down so easily.
Varys steeled himself for a desperate strike.
Across from him, however, Petyr had the exact opposite thought.
He had neither Varys's colorful past nor his survivalist skills. The crude swordplay he had once learned in his youth was long forgotten. As Aegor's former ally, he had not come prepared to die, nor did he intend to. True, he was loyal to Daenerys, but not to the point of dying for her. If Aegor truly meant to kill them, Petyr had already decided he would choose to serve whoever proved stronger.
The wine was likely poisoned, yes. But whether Aegor would resort to violence if they didn't drink was not yet certain. In Petyr's mind, Varys would surely refuse. If Aegor didn't react, Petyr would follow suit. If Aegor did turn hostile...
Then he would immediately kneel, declare loyalty, proclaim Aegor as the true Lord of Westeros, and urge him to take the Queen hostage and rule in her name.
He just wondered if he could act in time.
...
The two men sat in silence, each locked in his own thoughts, both having decided, in fear, what to do.
But Aegor, standing before them, did something neither expected.
After saying, "Let us drink this cup together in celebration," he lifted his goblet, tilted his head, and drank the entire cup in one go. Then he placed the empty goblet upside down on the table and looked at the two of them with clear, innocent eyes, as if asking: Why aren't you drinking?
What now?
I was ready to fight for my life, and you drank the wine?
Varys and Petyr both felt they had fallen into a deeper, more baffling trap. For men who prided themselves on their intellect, few things were more unsettling than this: just when they thought they had pierced through the fog and uncovered the truth, it turned out they were wrong.
Varys tried hard to hide his surprise, but his eyes widened slightly, as if trying to absorb more light to better observe his surroundings and discern the truth.
The wine had been poured by the servant right before their eyes. He had watched the whole process and seen no sleight of hand.
He had sat at the table for some time before Petyr arrived, and he was certain his cup had not been tampered with in advance.
Aegor had indeed drunk every drop in his goblet. He had not held any in his mouth, nor had any leaked from his lips.
Hmm...
Varys's gaze shifted to the wine jug. He had heard tales from the Far East of cunning craftsmen who made special jugs with secret compartments—one for regular wine, one for poison. A skilled user could control which came out. Could Aegor have used such a trick?
Unfortunately, the jug left on the table by the servant was a simple, open-mouthed vessel. There was no sealed lid. Made of clear glass, it was transparent and entirely visible. It held no complex structure.
Then...
Perhaps the wine was poisoned, but Aegor had taken an antidote beforehand. He could then drink freely, tricking the others into thinking it was safe, luring them into a fatal misstep.
Varys shook his head. Even he didn't believe that. He was not some ignorant commoner who believed in bard's tales. He had traveled across half the known world and killed with countless poisons. He was an expert in the matter. There was no such thing as a reliable, universal antidote. That was just fantasy, used to spice up stories. Even the most advanced Maesters and alchemists barely understood why poisons worked, let alone how to counteract them.
Yes, some concoctions could dull the effects of a poison or delay death. But they always left side effects. And with Aegor's current advantage—where he could order anyone in Winterfell, even Daenerys, chopped into meat—why would he endanger his health just to scare Varys and Petyr?
It made no sense.
Eliminating every other possibility, only one remained: since he dared drink the wine openly, the wine was not poisoned.
Either Aegor had used some undetectable method to poison only their goblets—which was unlikely—or the wine was never poisoned at all. He had deliberately created an atmosphere of fear, forcing them into paranoia and submission, humiliating them so thoroughly they would never again dare oppose him.
Wishful thinking.
But, damn it, the boy nearly succeeded.
Varys, realizing he had been played, felt the chill of death lift. But in its place came a wave of hatred. He had not been so thoroughly humiliated since being driven out of Myr by the thieves' guild.
Enjoy your moment of triumph. I'll make sure you die an ugly death.
Suppressing the fury that burned in his gut, Varys clung to his final shred of reason. Even if there was a one-in-a-million chance the wine was poisoned, he would not drink it.
With a look of helplessness and guilt, he shook his head.
"Lord Commander, I'm truly sorry. I've not been feeling well of late. I fear I lack the fortune to enjoy this fine wine."
(To be continued.)